Nothing, just the snow
and a few warblers
released into the quiet.
So easy it must be to be
a sea of white—the firs,
the wreath of apartments.
So peaceful. As daylight seeds
the room, I remember
I want to die. I’ve said it before,
styled the syntax in my throat.
I’m always sure of the warbler
that finds theory in snow,
and I wouldn’t mind that scholarship.
When he gifted me a lick of lilies
in the ice cream shop on our one-year anniversary,
I had not known then how bad
I wanted his lips to be my grave. How dramatic
our love has become. Arguments
I start in our favorite bar, arguments
in front of the storage unit—
I would be lying if I said he’s not to be cherished.
Once I realized he left
this world for the realm of absurdity,
I was so caught in the mind’s teeth.
It’s snowing again,
and his alarm slashes the room.
I’m watching the warbler slip into an essay
—On the Psychoanalysis of My Death
or
—Contributions to a Blue Suicide
or
—Sparing the Mind: The Body’s Attempt at Transcendence